


hold me dear (though i’m far away)

by nilescrane



Category: Downton Abbey, Downton Abbey (2019)
Genre: Fluff, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Intricate Rituals, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Post-Movie, at least at first
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:14:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22149253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nilescrane/pseuds/nilescrane
Summary: Despite everything keeping them apart, Thomas and Richard insist on finding their way back together.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Richard Ellis
Comments: 41
Kudos: 91





	1. whisper your name into the sky

It was nearly midnight when the phone rang. Thomas was just accepting a cup of tea from Mrs. Patmore when he heard it, somewhat distantly, jingling in his pantry. At first, he wondered who might be calling so late; an emergency in the village, perhaps? God forbid, after all they’d been through, a call from Sergeant Willis? These musings left Thomas less perturbed and more… preemptively exhausted; it wasn’t until he put together just who might be calling him at this particular hour that he felt his stomach turn over. 

Thomas thanked Mrs. Patmore for the tea—she still managed to look surprised every time he did so—and hurried off for the pantry, attempting to travel as quickly as he could without spilling it while also maintaining his dignity. He tried to force himself not to hope; the call was probably not for him, was probably just another bit of housekeeping to deal with at the end of a long day.

But on the other hand, if it was for him…

He closed the door with his free hand, set the cup and saucer on his desk, and positioned himself in his chair, readjusting a couple of times until he was properly upright. He took a small, measured breath, then picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Barrow?” Asked a familiar voice.

Thomas stifled a grin, felt his heart skip a beat. His suspicions had been correct.

“Mr. Ellis?” He asked, already knowing the answer.

“I hoped you’d still be up.”

“Still?” Thomas joked, feigning exasperation. “I’ve hardly just come downstairs!”

“I hope they’re not working you too hard there,” Ellis said, smile seeping into his voice. 

“All part of the routine, Mr. Ellis.”

And somewhere many miles away, Ellis laughed. Some days, it ached to think about how far apart they were; it ached not to know the next time they might meet face to face. Not tonight, though. Connected by the phone line, Thomas was allowed to fantasize just for a while that Ellis was there with him, to pretend that he was chuckling right in Thomas’ ear instead of somewhere off in London. 

If he hadn’t been religiously hanging onto Mr. Ellis’ every word, Thomas might have noted that the two of them had dispensed with formalities almost immediately. Talking to Ellis was like talking to someone he’d known forever—effortless, warm… even though they hadn’t spoken in weeks, slipping back into conversation felt as natural as anything. 

“Listen,” Ellis started, tone more serious, almost businesslike. “I’ve just been granted some time off, and I thought I might go up to York, to see my parents. It’s only a couple days, mind, but I wondered if we might meet while I’m there. For a… drink, you know.”

Thomas’ heart skipped a beat. It was one thing to talk to Mr. Ellis over the phone every once in a while, but quite another to actually meet him in person. His receiver began to slip through sweaty fingers as he imagined with a thrill standing in front of Ellis again, touching him, even kissing him. These were the thoughts that had kept him awake practically every night since the staff from Buckingham Palace had left Downton, but they had always seemed lifetimes away… until now.

“Mr. Barrow?”

Thomas remembered where he was, who he was talking to, what had been asked. He forced himself to focus, reasoning that they wouldn’t be able to meet at all if he didn’t agree to it first. 

“Yes!” He affirmed, perhaps a bit too excitedly, which he attempted to mitigate as he continued. “That is, yes, we ought to have a drink. Just tell me the dates, and I’ll work it out.”

Mr. Ellis paused on the other end of the line.

“Would you really?” He asked, softly.

Thomas couldn’t help but smile. Mr. Ellis was always so cool, confident, collected; yet it was moments like these that were Thomas’ favorite. The rare occasions on which Ellis seemed truly vulnerable were all too endearing.

“Mr. Ellis, I think I owe you a drink at the very least, after everything you’ve done for me.”

“Oh. Right, of course.” 

He could have sworn that Ellis sounded almost disappointed. In his wariness of coming off as desperate, Thomas worried he’d settled into his familiar, aloof manner. He knew all too well that he was hesitant to be affectionate, hesitant to make himself vulnerable to rejection yet again. Reminding himself that he was far more hesitant, however, to risk losing Mr. Ellis, he hurried to add,

“And it doesn’t hurt that I would rather like to see you again, too.” 

There was a pause on Mr. Ellis’ end, during which Thomas stopped breathing. This all felt so delicate. There were no prescribed social norms for men in their situation; it was a guessing game, a balance between being forward and being discreet—being circumspect. Thomas had learned the hard way the perils of favoring forwardness over discretion.

Luckily, this time it paid off. 

“Well, I suppose you’re in luck, then, Mr. Barrow,” returned Ellis at last. There was that trademark confidence—it almost sent a shiver down Thomas’ spine. It was not often that other men risked such forwardness with him, and Mr. Ellis happened to be especially good at it. 

He wondered for a moment if they might stay there all night; he figured he’d be content just listening to Ellis breathe over the crackling phone line, pretending he was right there in the pantry, remembering when he had been.

“Right,” said Ellis after a few moments, “I should say good night.” Of course, while Thomas fantasized about staying up all night, Ellis was going to bed—always the pragmatist. 

Reluctantly, Thomas replied, “Good night, Mr. Ellis. And I’ll see you soon.”

***

Stepping into the cold Yorkshire air gave Thomas a bit of a shock after several minutes on the train. It was winter now; the air was pleasantly chilly at best and biting at worst. The sky stayed a mundane gray most of the time, and the sometimes busy streets of York were devoid of their fair-weather travelers. 

Thomas, however, barely had time to worry about any of this; he spotted Mr. Ellis on the platform almost immediately. He forced himself not to grin like an idiot, although he was sure he came close as he removed his glove and extended a hand toward Ellis.

“Mr. Ellis,” Thomas said, although he wanted to say, “I missed you desperately,” or, “how handsome you look today,” or, “let’s run away together.”

Ellis took his hand, shook it—maybe even held on a bit too long. The touch sent prickles of gooseflesh up Thomas’ arm. There were a thousand exhilarating, unsaid words between them; yet Ellis, victim to several pairs of outside eyes, simply responded,

“Mr. Barrow.” How infectious his smile was.

Thomas could hardly believe he was looking at Mr. Ellis in the flesh, a vision that had monopolized his thoughts for weeks now. Yet here he was, brilliant as ever, and Thomas intended to relish in every moment they had together. 

The pub was not too far from the station—Mr. Ellis had come to favor it over the years as he visited the city to check in on his parents. He’d booked the two of them a room for the next two nights. One room, Thomas couldn’t help but notice, when he surely could have afforded two. He thought with relief that if Mr. Ellis had gone off him, he was certainly hiding it well. 

The main room was quiet, with a few patrons scattered about tables and at the bar. Just enough people populated the space to create a hum of chatter sufficient for private conversation. 

Ellis bought their drinks, refusing to entertain any of Thomas’ protests. They finally settled at a corner table, nursing their beers and sharing coy, knowing glances. After a moment, Thomas asked, 

“Have you seen your parents yet, Mr. Ellis?”

“I wish you’d call me Richard,” began Ellis. Richard. 

Thomas smiled, nodded, and answered, “Thomas.”

“Thomas,” Richard confirmed. “And no, not yet. I only got here an hour or two before yourself, thought I might pop in on them tomorrow.”

Thomas smiled, which he found to be all too easy around Richard. The idea of him having parents, having grown up, having been young once—it was all delightful. He wouldn’t dream of saying it aloud, but there was a part of him that longed to study every detail about Richard, to learn all there was to know. That being the case, he couldn’t help but think how obligatory this all seemed—the drinks and the small talk and what not—when he, for one, would much rather be in their room, speaking freely; not fighting to blend in among the standard public house occupants. Who knew the next time they’d be able to see one another in person?

He privately hoped that Richard felt the same, although if he did, he didn’t let on. Circumspect, Thomas thought. 

“How was the ride here?” Richard offered.

Thomas let himself deflate—only slightly—and answered through a polite smile, “I wish we didn’t have to talk about that.”

Richard looked amused, cocked his head in confusion. 

“Only, there are far more interesting things I’d like to discuss with you, Mr. Ellis,” he pushed on.

Richard raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”

Thomas suspected he was feigning innocence, yet played along anyway. He ventured to speak boldly.

“Well, we had a very… interesting conversation when you left Downton.” A conversation during which you kissed me. “Suppose we try something like that again.” 

There was an undeniable kick of adrenaline that came with putting such charged words between them, evoking such an intimate moment. Thomas cast his eyes downward and took a swig from his glass in case his proposition didn’t land the way he’d hoped.

He looked up again in time to see that Ellis’ eyes were wide, but he quickly smiled again and muttered something about a “cheeky bugger…” before taking a drink himself. How right he was.

They sat in silence for a few moments, sharing knowing glances and biting their lips to avoid grinning like lovestruck schoolchildren. Eventually, Thomas conceded a return to small talk, content with having surprised Ellis.

“So what do you have planned while you’re here, Mr. Ellis?”

“Richard.”

“Richard,” Thomas corrected, with a placating nod of his head.

Richard waited a moment, then answered simply, “Dunno.” Then, inspecting his drink, “Thought we might… stay in, tonight. Unless you had something in mind?” Thomas suspected that by “staying in,” Richard meant a whole lot more than some reading and a cup of tea. He looked up at Thomas over the rim of his glass, awaiting a response. 

Thomas willed his cheeks not to heat up, his palms not to start sweating. “Sounds alright to me,” he replied. 

Looking into to Richard’s eyes just then was thrilling. It almost made Thomas grateful for the small talk; left to his own devices, he feared what ridiculous things might come out of his mouth. He had imagined expressing his adoration for Richard in far more detail than he’d have cared to admit; but he wasn’t sure he could confess to that at all, much less in the middle of a pub. 

Couldn’t risk scaring him away.

Their room was simple, but not shabby: it was adorned with two beds, a small table, a dresser, a coat rack, and an adjoining bathroom. Thomas wondered if pushing the beds together was a viable option. Probably not, but one still looked big enough to share—that is, if things made it that far. Considering his past luck, Thomas was wary of being too presumptuous, even if Richard’s tone earlier had seemed resoundingly flirtatious.

Richard pocketed their room key and tossed his hat, gloves, overcoat, and jacket onto one of the beds, while Thomas lingered by the doorway, taking his time to follow suit and hang his overcoat and jacket on the rack. He found that now that they were actually alone, he was rather nervous. It wasn’t just the pressure of having to hide the nature of their relationship from the outside world; there was something about Richard that was unlike other men he’d been with. He’d had plenty of lovely nights with the odd sailor or anonymous pub-goer, but this was different. He didn’t want to say goodbye in the morning and forget Richard’s name by dinnertime—he didn’t ever want to say goodbye, in fact. So he waited for Richard to make the first move.

Circumspect.

The man in question did not disappoint. Richard made his way slowly across the floor toward Thomas, only stopping when their faces were inches apart. This was exponentially closer than they ever would have gotten in public. Thomas wasn’t sure what to say. He smiled, polite, nervous. 

“Lovely room,” he near-whispered. 

“Sure is.” 

Richard performed a somewhat theatrical look around the room; Thomas watched him take in the minimal, modern decorations—hands in his pockets, feet planted confidently; yet with cheeks glowing a telling red. His eyes finally landed back on Thomas, whom he seemed to find more captivating than anything else in the room. The smile he gave was suggestive, spine-tingling, heartwarming; all at once.

“It sure is,” Richard said again.

With a contented, lazy sigh, he hooked his fingers around Thomas’ braces, one in each hand, gently tugging him forward. Thomas took the hint—Richard wasn’t being especially subtle—and laid his arms around Richard’s shoulders. It almost reminded him of his night in the makeshift dance hall, with his arms around another man. His heart raced now, too, as it did then. This was different, though—that had been exhilaration in the face of something new; being here with Richard felt all too familiar. And just about too lovely to bear.

When had he become such a soppy bastard?

“Thomas? You alright?” 

Thomas snapped out of his stupor, trying not to melt at the endearing look of concern which Richard now sported. 

“Sorry. Miles away,” he chuckled. Then, in a display of great confidence or perhaps just unashamed honesty, “I find you very distracting, Mr. Ellis.”

Richard mock-scowled. “Rich—“

“Richard. Right.”

“Right,” Richard muttered with a giggle and a nod. He took a slow step forward, pushing Thomas back against the door—gentle, but firm. Without looking away from Thomas, he locked the door, then returned the key to his pocket. Thomas hadn’t noticed him remove it.

“How very circumspect, Mr. Ellis.”

Richard let out a huff of air through his nose, a little laugh. “I always am,” he said, and then he kissed Thomas. And then they were kissing, and Thomas thought he might never breathe again.

When they finally pulled apart—just enough to look at each other—Thomas was reminded of when they’d kissed at Downton, and he had seen the usually coolheaded Mr. Ellis appear uncharacteristically disarmed, even breathless. Richard looked the same way now, blushing like mad and struggling to catch his breath.

And oh, so beautiful. 

And just about eager enough to swallow Thomas whole, although Thomas was sure he was a virtual mirror in that regard.

They seemed to have a hundred conversations, just looking at each other, even though neither of them said a word. After watching Richard’s eyes dart back and forth between his own for God knows how long, Thomas felt Richards arms wrap around his waist, and they kissed again. They worked their way toward the empty bed, Richard walking backwards and only separating from Thomas when it was absolutely necessary in order to navigate. He made quick work of sliding Thomas’ braces off his shoulders, followed by his own; then, without skipping a beat, they sat side by side on the bed, flashing bashful smiles at one another as they rushed to remove their shoes and undo their buttons. When they couldn’t stand being disconnected any longer, Richard pushed a very disheveled Thomas back onto the bed, straddling him; as Thomas propped himself on his elbows to meet him for another kiss. All he could think to say was I love you, so he said nothing, and instead let Richard ease him all the way onto his back. They kissed, and kept kissing.

In general, Thomas wasn’t used to assuming such a passive role. But there was something so alluring and quintessentially Richard about his confidence and the way he held Thomas so close; he suspected he would let Richard do just about anything. 

Seemingly embarking on a similar train of thought, Richard paused, looked serious, and asked, “Is this—Are you alright with this?”

Thomas privately rejoiced at witnessing another lapse in Richard’s collected exterior. Red-faced, sweaty, raw—Thomas felt a secret sort of pride at having been one of the few people allowed to see him this way. 

“This,” Thomas answered, “Is excellent,” as he pulled Richard back toward him, and pressed a kiss to his smile until Richard returned the favor. 

Shortly thereafter, Thomas’ outershirt was wrenched open and his undershirt removed; Richard peppered a volley of kisses down his chest and stomach that made Thomas’ breath hitch. With a self-assured, affectionate chuckle, Richard sat back on his heels and started to undress himself. Thomas watched Richard’s trembling fingers undo the buttons of his shirt before he began working off his trousers and drawers, while Thomas began to remove his own. It was terribly romantic, and also terribly erotic, and quite a bit more than Thomas was prepared to handle this early in the evening. Richard, however, showed no signs of stopping; nude, and looking rather like the most gorgeous statue that Thomas could possibly envision, he ran his hands up over Thomas’ chest and let their lips find each other again. 

Thomas massaged one hand through Richard’s hair and laid the other on his back, thinking how much he’d like to hold Richard this close forever. He quickly stopped thinking that, however, and began to think of some other things, as Richard pulled a clever move; placing a knee between Thomas’ legs and nearly knocking the wind out of him. He parted from Richard’s lips and pressed their foreheads together, taking a moment to catch his breath. Richard admired him for a moment, his gaze tinged at first with concern and then, satisfied that Thomas was alright, an unmistakable adoration. He seized the opportunity to work his mouth down Thomas’ jaw and onto his neck, careful not to leave a mark—equally as careful to stir Thomas into a right frenzy. 

Thomas wondered if the feeling of Richard’s mouth on his neck and Richard’s chest pressed against his and Richard’s knee on his crotch might actually cause him to combust. When Richard’s teeth found his earlobe, he couldn’t help but sigh out, 

“Oh, God!” 

Richard shushed him, but chuckled an adorable little laugh to show he wasn’t really upset, then carried on.

Being circumspect was very difficult, Thomas was learning, when you had a gorgeous man draped over top of you.


	2. i am not above the sorrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for brief reference to a suicide attempt.

Thomas awoke just after dawn, as a sliver of light was beginning to creep in through the small window in the corner of their room. Most days—at least in the winter—he was up and about long before sunrise. He certainly wasn’t about to complain about the chance to sleep in, or the beautiful man next to whom he seemed to sleep so soundly. 

He rolled over and propped himself on an elbow to look at Richard, who was curled on his side, facing Thomas. The window didn’t light the bed directly; but it provided enough of a dim, hazy glow to make Richard, lying still with the faintest smirk on his lips, appear fairly angelic. Eyes shut, he groggily mumbled, “I’m awake,” giving Thomas a bit of a start. Thomas snorted a soft laugh, then pressed a long, gentle kiss to Richard’s forehead, then to the bridge of his nose, then to his lips. At that, Richard’s eyes fluttered open. 

“Good morning,” Thomas greeted, sounding more in love than he thought he was capable of.

Richard smiled, looking Thomas over and making no efforts to hide his doing so. Thomas struggled to catch his breath. Richard kissed him again, then said,

“Thank God you’re awake. I rather missed looking at you,” so matter-of-fact Thomas was almost annoyed with his effortless suavity. Almost, but not quite. Instead, he was embarrassed, and ecstatic, and oh, so in love. He rolled onto his back; he felt his cheeks growing hot and had to break eye contact to keep from blushing like a fool. Richard seemed just as content with this arrangement, giving him another start as he nuzzled into Thomas’ neck. He pressed a kiss to the crown of Richard’s head, stroked Richard’s hair with his free hand, and counted his blessings. 

After a moment, Richard mumbled into his shoulder, “Wha’ time is it?”

Thomas craned his neck to look at the wall clock behind him, then replied, “Eight—quarter past eight.”

Richard burrowed deeper, drawing an amused chuckle out of Thomas—it tickled a bit, but mostly he just found it adorable. Richard then hoisted himself out of bed, taking a moment to yawn and stretch before stepping into the bathroom. He didn’t seem to pay much attention to the fact that he wasn’t wearing any clothes—a fact that Thomas was privately quite grateful for, as he watched Richard retreat. As he disappeared into their en-suite, Thomas rolled back to face the ceiling and realized he was still smiling. Around Richard, it felt impossible not to.

The sound of the faucet squeaking echoed into their room, followed by that of water filling the bathtub. Shortly thereafter, Richard reappeared, sitting on the bed at Thomas’ feet and extending a hand toward him. 

“Care to join?”

Thomas did his best to hide the shiver that ran down his spine at the proposition of bathing with another man. Attempting to gather his wits, he pretended to be unsure, squinting thoughtfully up at the ceiling. Richard reached behind his head to hit him with his own pillow, and they both erupted in laughter. Jovial and all-too-smitten, Thomas accepted Richard’s hand (outstretched once again), and let Richard pull him to his feet. 

Being naked made Thomas feel a bit shy, although it still seemed to have no effect on Richard. For a moment, Thomas envied his confidence; remembering the night before, however, gave him a feeling of triumph. Nudity may not have phased Richard Ellis, but Thomas was one of the few who knew what did.

Richard led him into the bathroom, letting Thomas sink into the tub first while he fetched them towels. He then joined Thomas in the few inches of water, his back to Thomas’ chest—rather more vulnerable than he had been before, physically speaking. Thomas took no issue with this, finding he was just as happy to hold Richard in his arms. Thomas was just happy to be with him. He curled his right arm around Richard’s middle and held him close, letting his left hand hang over the side to avoid getting his glove wet. Richard wrapped Thomas’ arm in his own, then leaned back and craned his neck, allowing them to share a series of lazy kisses. Truthfully, Thomas realized, they probably looked rather silly; both of them were rather tall and the bathtub was barely large enough to accommodate one person of their size, let alone two. Neither of them could be bothered to care about this, though, perfectly content to contort themselves and fit together like jig-saw pieces. 

After some time, Thomas took to running a hand through Richard’s hair—a weak excuse for any actual washing up—while Richard rested his head on Thomas’ chest, eyes shut peacefully. Thomas smiled down at him, bittersweet. 

Softly, and only a bit shakily, he remarked, “I hate to think of leaving you after only one more day.”

Richard smiled and hummed contentedly. “As do I,” he answered. “But it does please me to hear you say it.”

Thomas chuckled, but found himself distracted before he could say anything else. With a hand submerged in Richard’s hair, he only muttered, “Oh, wow.”

Richard popped one eye open. “What?”

“Your—it’s curly!”

“My—? Oh, yes, well.” He closed both eyes again, as the faintest hint of a blush crept onto his face. 

Thomas continued, enraptured. “I never noticed before, what with it—“

“Combed back and everything, yeah. It’s…” Richard sighed dramatically, exaggerating his distress. “It can be quite untamable, at times.”

Thomas chuckled again. “If I had it my way, you wouldn’t try to tame it.”

Richard only smiled at this, looked up, and pressed a kiss just to the side of Thomas’ lips. It was a miss, but not one that Thomas had a mind to complain about. They stayed like that for several blissful, romantic minutes; content to let the sun continue to rise and the world continue to turn around them.

Eventually, they dried off and set about getting dressed together; a somewhat painstaking process, since they couldn’t seem to keep their hands off of each other.

Richard had successfully maneuvered himself into shirtsleeves and a single sock (the left one) before he was struck with the idea that Thomas might teach him some dance steps. Grinning, he reminded Thomas that, considering his recent visit to the makeshift dance hall, he’d had ample time to practice. 

Thomas whacked him on the arm—not enough to hurt, of course—and obligingly guided Richard’s hand to his waist. He directed Richard in some basic Charleston moves, giggling when Richard stepped on his toes. 

“What, like this?” Richard asked, kicking a leg back in a way that Thomas privately compared to a donkey.

“No, no, darling—out to the side…” Thomas demonstrated, realizing too late that he’d let the term of endearment slip. Richard also seemed to realize, and was far from merciful.

“I see,” he replied, paying no attention to Thomas’ instruction. He just looked at Thomas, clearly trying to stifle a laugh.

“Don’t.” Thomas was pointedly looking at their feet, trying to kick Richard’s legs into place. 

“Wh—I didn’t say anything!”

“It just slipped out.”

Richard laughed, although not cruelly, and succumbed to Thomas’ nudging, resuming his attempts at the dance. “I rather liked it, in fact,” he mumbled. 

They shared a coy glance, smiling at one another before returning to coordinating their footsteps.

Richard cleared his throat, then continued, “Think you could do better though… perhaps, ‘my prince,’ or, ‘my angel.’”

Thomas promptly kicked him in the shin, and then they were both laughing too hard to continue dancing Neither of them had to say out loud that it was not Richard’s strong suit.

They spent easily another hour like this, laughing and teasing and enjoying each other’s company. Finally, Thomas found himself facing Richard, adjusting his tie, and giving him a swift kiss before he disappeared into the hallway.

They shared another lovely night together (Richard didn’t spend quite as much time with his parents as he had on their last trip; Thomas didn’t get arrested), followed by an equally lovely morning. By mid-afternoon they were making feeble attempts at packing their things, with minimal success. Neither of their hearts were in it. 

Thomas watched Richard weakly kick at his suitcase, as if it might spring to life and pack itself. No such luck. He crossed the room to put Richard out of his misery, wrapping his arms around Richard’s waist and resting his chin on Richard’s shoulder. Richard leaned his head onto Thomas’, and there they stood, swaying ever so slightly and relaxing into one another. A dance of sorts, one that rivaled without question their earlier Charleston attempts. 

Richard turned to face Thomas, taking Thomas’ hands in his, pressing a kiss to the knuckles of his right, then his left; saying everything he needed to without any words. He took a moment to observe the leather glove; seemingly without judgment, Thomas noticed—positive or negative. 

After a moment, presumably considering what to say, he simply asked, “From the war?”

Thomas blinked, feeling himself grow a bit dizzy, realizing he had never divulged the history of his wound to Richard. It was a big thing to forget, but somehow an easy one; after just two nights together, Thomas felt as if he’d known Richard for years. He was certain that Richard knew him better than almost anyone else; it seemed that he should already know Thomas’ history. It was almost jarring to be reminded that they had met only a few months earlier. 

Swallowing all of the things he couldn’t quite say, Thomas just nodded. Richard seemed to understand that this was a discussion for another time, and said no more; instead pressing another kiss to the gloved hand while peering up at Thomas through his eyelashes. Thomas realized with a bit of a shock that he was now fighting to hold back tears, unable to contain the love and the gratitude and the bone-chilling fear that was bubbling up in him. He reached up to stroke Richard’s cheek for a moment, then turned away to resume packing, not wanting to blub and embarrass himself. Not yet. 

Richard took the opportunity to excuse himself to the bathroom, giving Thomas a moment to himself. Even though they were only separated by a single door, Thomas felt very alone all of a sudden. The hazy sunlight over a love-worn bed was now just a dull gray illuminating unmade sheets. He peered down at his left hand, feeling memories flood back, regret flood in. After he was sent home from the front, he had decided he’d gotten away with it, with an illegitimate injury. But had he? How was he to explain to Richard that he’d all but fled? Now, it seemed all too easy to believe that they’d only known each other for a short time. Richard hadn’t known him as a coward or a bully, which was how he’d spent most of his life, until now. How could he possibly explain a past that he was so desperately ashamed of?

He had the impulse to retrieve Richard’s silver watch chain from his pocket, to hold it in his wounded palm. He studied it for a moment: silver with white, metal with leather, Ellis with Barrow. He blinked hard. 

For some reason, the two just didn’t seem to fit together. 

***

Mrs. Hughes was the first to greet Thomas when he wandered into the kitchen that Sunday evening.

“Ah, Mr. Barrow! How was your time in York?” She asked, seeming sincerely interested. Although he’d been making the effort for some time now to be more congenial with his coworkers, it was still a surprise when they seemed to genuinely care about his life. 

As warmly as he could manage, all he replied was, “Quite good, Mrs. Hughes. Quite good.” And it was mostly true, too; save for the brief period of unease just before he left, it had been a regular microcosm of domestic bliss. The pain of it ending hadn’t quite gotten a chance to set in, yet. Thomas intended to fight that off for as long as he could.

“I’ll run up and unpack,” he continued, “and be back in time to serve dinner.”

Mrs. Hughes attempted to protest, urging him to make the most of his day off, but Thomas actually preferred to resume his duties. It helped take the sting out of the inevitable realization that Richard was, once again, a number of hours away. The realization that the next morning, Thomas wouldn’t find an arm wrapped gently around him, wouldn’t roll over and find himself face to face with the most unfathomably handsome man.

Couldn’t think about any of that while he was scrutinizing Mr. Molesley’s performance, though, could he?

Luckily, when he returned to Downton, preparations were just beginning for the holidays, so there was plenty to distract him from missing Richard. With silver to polish and rooms to prepare, he could hardly pay much thought to a man hundreds of miles away. 

Of course, this did not mean he was any less pleased when he received a letter from Richard just before Christmas.

Richard was even more eloquent on the page than he was in person, as he wrote in no uncertain terms of his persisting affections for Thomas—who was only grateful that no one else was around to see him blush. 

Late that evening, after he found his way back downstairs, he set off toward his pantry to draft a response—only to be intercepted by Miss Baxter. 

“You’ve looked awfully pleased all evening, Mr. Barrow,” she noted softly. 

Thomas had no desire to be unfriendly, but he wasn’t quite ready to let her in on all of the details of his personal life. Instead, he simply asked, “Do I?” And flashed her a knowing smile, before heading off to concoct his reply for Richard. 

He returned Richard’s sentiments in full—or at least to the best of his ability; he neither shared Richard talent for prose nor his romantic tendencies. 

His writing seemed to be satisfactory nonetheless, as Richard wrote him back within a few days. This letter was not unlike his first, which is to say, the kind of thing that made Thomas feel like a lovesick teenager. The only departure from this tone was the final paragraph:

Thomas, I hope you don’t think me too—multiple words were scratched out here, then—attached. I could write less, or with less poetry, but the fact remains: I find myself unflinchingly, desperately devoted to you.

This bit was consistent; it made Thomas smile so hard his cheeks hurt (which he’d deny if anyone asked). It went on, however:

With that hope in mind, I have to ask: I found my watch chain—the one I gifted you at Downton—on the table before I left our room. I couldn’t work up the courage to ask you about it then, but I find myself unable to put it out of my mind. If this was intended to be a sign that you’ve lost interest in me, I understand. I only ask that you confirm or deny this suspicion, rather than leaving me to wonder. I believe I’ve made my own feelings clear, and now I ask for yours. I can’t bear the wondering, Thomas. 

Thomas couldn’t seem to catch his breath.

Until I hear otherwise, I am forever your  
Richard

Thomas closed his eyes, held the letter to his chest. His head ached, suddenly; his eyes stung, though he couldn’t understand why. Of course he hadn’t intended to leave the chain. It was the only tangible reminder of Richard that he had; he wouldn’t think of leaving it behind. 

Yet he had.

Thomas tried very hard, just then, not to think certain things; things like,

Did he leave it on purpose?

Did he want Richard to find it?

Did some wretched part of him want to put Richard off?

He closed his eyes, remembered the image of the delicate piece of silver resting in his palm, nothing but a thin layer of fabric separating it from his mangled hand. A hand disfigured by fear. By cowardice. 

As he continued very pointedly not to think about those questions, he felt his stomach turning over, his brow growing sweaty. Something was wrong with him, both in the immediate and the long-term sense. Thomas had a very bad feeling that there was just too much to explain, too much self-incriminating history. This feeling would keep him from replying to that particular letter—no matter what he said, it would feel like a lie. He hoped that with time, the bad feeling would dissipate on its own; that things would go back to how they were before, when he’d be woken up by the sunrise and the future would seem unthreatening.

That prayer went unanswered.

***

Boxing Day was rather laid back, compared with the week that preceded it. There would be minimal entertaining upstairs until New Year’s Eve, so most of the staff was enjoying a bit of spare time. Even Thomas found himself largely unoccupied that evening, so he took to strolling about the halls—assuring himself that everything was in order, half-hoping he might find someone with whom to pass the time. 

Upon reaching the servants’ dining hall, he found Bates and Anna to be its sole occupants. He didn’t bother making his presence known, confident that they wouldn’t want his company. Well, at least one of them wouldn’t.

Thomas was about to turn around and retire to his pantry once again, when he began to overhear part of their conversation. It sounded like it might have been about him; he hoped in vain that it wasn’t. He hastily positioned himself behind the staircase, straining to listen to what they were saying. If he was clenching his fists, he didn’t notice. 

“...suspect there might be a… new friend in his life, don’t you think?” Anna was saying. The euphemism made him cringe. So much for being an ordinary bloke.

“Maybe so. He did seem rather happy after his time off,” came Bates’ disinterested reply. 

Anna hummed in affirmation, then added, “Bit down as of late, though, isn’t he? Do you reckon something went wrong?”

“I’ve told him before,” Bates began. Thomas squeezed his eyes shut. “If he would try being a bit nicer…”

Thomas took a sharp breath in, as Anna let out a little laugh and barely-chided, “John!”

Thomas couldn’t help but think that perhaps if he had been a bit nicer, Anna would have actually defended him. Perhaps if he’d been a bit nicer, Bates wouldn’t despise him. Perhaps if he’d been a bit nicer, he would have been a fit match for a wonderful man, perhaps he would have remembered the watch chain and avoided Richard’s questions.

But he hadn’t, had he?

He’d tried—he really had—to be better; he had tried to convince himself that he’d hit rock bottom after Andy and Baxter had found him in the bath, and that he could only improve from there. But deep down, perhaps he’d always known that that was too naive. He’d spent years lying, scheming, associating with the wrong sort; perhaps Bates was right. Perhaps he’d missed his chance to be a good person. 

Thomas forced his eyes open at last, the rest of the Bates’ conversation fading into the background, only to see Mrs. Hughes coming down the hallway toward him. She stopped when she spotted him, and tilted her head at him in a way that said everything:

Back to your old ways, are you?

He pushed past Mrs. Hughes, avoiding eye contact, blinking back tears. What an idiot he’d been to think that she would ever come around to him, that any of them would. He’d spent too long pushing them away, and now he had to pay the price for it: utter isolation. There was no one but himself to blame for the fact that nobody could love him. And hard has he tried, he couldn’t force the thought out of his mind:

Why should Richard be any different?

Thomas all but ran into the pantry, shutting the door and leaning his forehead against it. He took a deep breath, then another; trying to force down all the feelings that were bubbling up inside him. Trying to convince himself that it couldn’t be as bad as all that, that he could be better; but struggling to believe it.

After a moment, he heard a shuffling behind him, and felt the air leave his lungs for a second as he turned to see Baxter rising from the chair nearest him. 

“I’m sorry,” she near-whispered. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“Well you have, haven’t you?” 

Baxter had the audacity to look hurt when he said this, even if only for a moment. Why had she come to expect anything better of him?

She continued cautiously, “Thomas, I don’t know what happened, but—“

“Why are you here?”

Miss Baxter stopped, mouth agape. For a moment, she almost looked angry—Thomas would have been proud of her if the anger hadn’t been directed at him, and if he hadn’t been busy digging himself into a pit of self-hatred.

In all honesty, however, he hadn’t meant for that last question to sound quite so spiteful. He scoffed, annoyed—less with Baxter than with himself—and attempted to clarify.

“Why do you keep at it? Me, I mean?” He blinked hard, clenched his jaw, continued. “I’ve barely done anything for you—any good deeds are outweighed by my unkindness, so why?” Thomas looked at the floor, awaiting her reply, until he could no longer stand the silence and forced himself to meet Baxter’s eyes. To his surprise, she was just smiling.

She took a moment just to look at him, then simply said, “When we really love people, we forgive them. No matter what.”

He said nothing, just looked down again. Baxter seemed to perceive that he wasn’t going to be much for conversation; she passed him and opened the door, taking a moment to squeeze his shoulder affectionately before she shut it behind her. He didn’t stop her. 

He wished he had. 

She had a way of imparting such wise words in that small, barely-there voice of hers. Thomas knew that she was right, but accepting it was far more difficult than the alternative. Convincing himself that he hadn’t changed was much easier than convincing the world that he had. 

Thomas brushed a tear from his cheek, walked to the phone, and dialed.

Long-distance.

London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. all my chapter 1 housekeeping notes still apply!
> 
> 2\. hoping to update weekly from here on out—was very ill last week so i wasn’t able to adhere to that. hoping to in the future!
> 
> 3\. was a bit self-indulgent with this one... e.g. returning to the “perhaps if you were nicer” scene which i was reminded of and Sad About. also Richard’s hair. you get it. i make no apologies.
> 
> 4\. thanks again for reading! this is my first multi-chapter fic and i’m real excited about it :-)


	3. heavy hearted (till you call my name)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for:
> 
> depicted PTSD/panic attacks  
> symptoms of depression/disassociation  
> implied homophobia

The sound of the phone ringing in London echoed in Thomas’s ears as he stared ahead, vision blurry. His chest rose and fell in a series of rapid, shallow breaths. 

He barely heard Wilson’s voice answer, barely heard himself ask for His Majesty’s valet. All he could hear was the voice in his head telling him to stop, to hang up before it was too late. And all he could do was refuse to listen. 

“Hello?”

Thomas stopped breathing. He couldn’t speak. He’d broken out into a cold sweat.

“Hello…?” Repeated Richard’s voice, more uncertain this time.

“Mr. Ellis,” was all Thomas choked out.

“Mr. Barrow!” He could hear the smile easing into Richard’s voice. He pretended he couldn’t. “You had me starting to worry, I hadn’t heard from you for some time now!” He said with a little laugh.

Thomas went silent again. He couldn’t seem to find the words—or perhaps he lacked the courage to say them. 

“Thomas?”

“Yes,” he breathed out. “Yes, well.”

Richard wasn’t smiling anymore. He could hear it.

“Thomas?” He asked again. “What’s wrong?”

Thomas took a shaky breath in, fighting hard to keep from breaking down. 

“I think—I don’t think I’ll have the time to keep in contact anymore,” he said. “Very busy, and all that.”

Now there was a silence on Richard’s end. For a few, eternal seconds, he heard nothing but his own heartbeat. 

“I… don’t understand,” was all Richard said, finally.

Thomas noticed a tear running down his cheek--passively, as if he was watching himself from the outside. He pressed on. 

“It was foolish to think we could maintain a correspondence, what with the distance and—well, everything.”

“Thomas, what’s going on? I thought everything was fine.”

“Suppose you thought wrong, then.”

Silence.

Thomas had regretted everything he’d said up to this point, but he wished he could take back that last quip most of all. Anyone else would be used to that casual iciness in his tone—it was relatively tame, considering some of the things he’d said in the past. But not Richard. He’d never spoken that way to Richard.

His life already felt so fragile, and here he was, tossing a grenade right into the middle of it.

Richard finally spoke. “Suppose I did” he said, cold. 

Thomas felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach.

“Can you just—“ Richard scoffed, exasperated, and paused for a moment. When he continued, it was quiet: “Is it something I’ve done?”

Thomas would rather take another bullet than hear Richard’s voice quiver like that, but here he was. He’d been fighting to maintain his composure—to convince himself that this was inevitable. But it was too much. Once, witnessing the cracks in Richard’s confident facade was endearing. Now, it was heartbreaking. 

He covered the receiver and gasped for air, wondering if this was what drowning felt like. It took a long time for him to speak again, and when he did, he sounded as small as he felt.

“I’m no good, Richard.”

“Please breathe,” was all he heard in reply.

For some reason, it was that that upset him the most. He was so angry with Richard for caring, for being reasonable. For making Thomas fall even more in love with him, at now of all times. 

“Jesus, you barely even know me,” he snapped. “I’ve done—I’ve done some awful things. Awful, truly. You’d hate me if you knew.”

He tried not to pay attention to his lip quivering as he waited for Richard to answer. He wasn’t certain what, exactly, he was waiting for.

As measured as ever, Richard said, “I could never do that.”

Thomas wanted so badly to believe him.

“How do you know?”

Richard took a long pause. Then, said simply, “I love you.”

Thomas held his breath. He froze. He opened his mouth to reply.

And he hung up.

He let out a shaky breath, he stood, he turned off the lights, and he went to bed; cringing at the sound of the phone ringing as he retreated.

When Thomas awoke the next morning, he was reminded—as he always was—that Richard was not there next to him. He felt an ache set in as he remembered that after what he’d done, he would probably never wake up next to Richard again. He absentmindedly washed, dressed, and reported downstairs; making his way to his office to gather himself before breakfast.

As he stepped into the pantry, the ache worsened. He remembered the night before, the sound of the phone ringing—never to be answered—echoing in his mind. The memories returned to him in heavy, paralyzing waves; recollections of everything he’d done—and undone—the previous evening. He couldn’t even remember what had gotten him so upset, why he had picked up the telephone at all. All he could think of was how desperately he wanted to see Richard; all he could imagine was a kiss pressed to his gloved palm, all he could feel was a confession caught in his throat.

He thought over and over of what he would say, tracing over the words in his mind as he might use his finger to trace a passage in a book. He had been scared, and exhausted, and he’d seen so many men die right in front of him—probably more than he could count. He couldn’t breathe, there was so much dust in the air; he couldn’t sleep, what with all the blasts…

As if by magic—or perhaps a curse—Thomas was back in trenches. He could see so clearly the sandbags piled on shabby wooden walls, the narrow passageways snaking between miles of barren land. He blinked hard, trying to force the image out of his mind; he gripped the chair nearest him so hard his knuckles turned white, trying to remind himself that he was still here, in his office.

When he looked up, though, all he could see were memories from the front—images he hadn’t recalled in years. He felt his breath catch as he held in his hand a phantom lighter, watched in his mind’s eye as trembling fingers lifted it into enemy view. Shut his eyes tight, only to be confronted with the image of a bloodied hand sinking into his lap. 

He opened his eye again, noticed his fingers were shaking now as they had been then. In fact, his whole body seemed to be shivering—he gripped the chair as hard as he could, peering at the office/war zone through wide eyes, trying to distinguish reality from memory.

A murky voice was calling to him—the sergeant, perhaps? Or, God forbid, another soldier in need of a medic? He looked around frantically, only to find himself face to face with—Bates. It was all Thomas could do just to look at him, eyes gaping in horror, nostrils flaring with rapid, shallow breaths. 

“Mr. Barrow?” Bates asked, hesitant. 

Of all the people to find him like this, this was probably the one that Thomas would have least preferred. He was in no state to worry about that, though; he was otherwise occupied with losing his mind. 

He tore his hand from the chair and grabbed Bates’ arm, giving him a start. Thomas needed something to bring him back, something to ground him in Downton. 

He spoke through a wince, desperate in his confusion. “What’s going on? Do they—are they calling for me?”

Bates looked frustrated—inconvenienced. “What?”

“Do they need a stretcher bearer?”

Thomas felt nauseous. He couldn’t figure out why Bates was so calm amidst this chaos.

“Jesus, Thomas,” he muttered. He took Thomas’ hand off of his arm—surprisingly gentle, considering their history—and led Thomas to the chair he’d been clutching, his back to the door. Thomas sat, unable to gather his wits enough to even consider defying Bates’ lead, much less actually doing it. He realized that he was probably hyperventilating.

Bates crossed the room to shut the door; Thomas thought for a second he had left—and was shocked that he’d actually lived to see the day when he’d be sorry to see Bates go. He hadn’t, however, and returned to stand in front of Thomas, studying him for a moment. 

“It’s alright,” Bates said finally, more clinical than comforting. “You’re not going back there.”

Thomas recalled O’Brien attempting to comfort a distressed Mr. Lang so many years before. All he remembered from that night was lamenting his own interrupted sleep, but he could certainly sympathize now. Whatever this was, he wouldn’t wish it on any man.

He wished O’Brien were here now to talk him through this. Here he was, in need of help from two of the people he most resented.

“Right,” he forced out. “Right, I know. I don’t know why it’s…” he gestured vaguely to his head. Bates made no attempts at comfort, for which Thomas couldn’t exactly blame him. He only tapped his cane on the ground a few times; pensive.

Thomas felt himself beginning to come to his senses. Slowly, he began to recognize the desk, recognize the pantry, remember where he was. The turmoil of the last few minutes felt more and more ludicrous as the time passed, and he began to catch his breath.

What a mess.

Thomas let out a bitter laugh, letting it sink in just how fucked up he really was. “Guess I’m damaged goods,” he said at last, staring at the wall. 

For a while, Bates said nothing; Thomas resigned himself to counting the seconds until he gave up and left. 

Yet another person that he’d driven away.

Finally, though, Bates spoke again. It sounded strained; it was obviously a struggle for him to regard Thomas with such civility.

“You know, when I met Anna, she never judged me, for my…” he gave his cane a wave. “She was always sympathetic. She—she loved me with it, not despite it.”

Thomas blinked up at him. Bates seemed lost in the memory, but Thomas couldn’t understand how it related to his situation. Whose judgment did he think Thomas was afraid of, his? Anna’s?

Bates looked back at Thomas, evidently seeing the vacancy in his expression. He gritted his teeth and clarified. 

“What I mean is that you can be imperfect, and still be loved. Whatever it is that you’re so ashamed of”—he said that as if Thomas had everything to be ashamed of—“if someone really loves you, they’ll forgive that.” He blinked quickly a few times, straining under the discomfort of this interaction.

Right. For all the things Bates was, he was not oblivious. Remembering the conversation he’d overheard between Bates and Anna, Thomas realized with a chill that the former probably understood more about the situation than Thomas had suspected. He felt a pang of nausea at the thought of Mr. Bates, of all people, giving him love advice, of all things.

More frustrating yet, Bates sounded remarkably like Miss Baxter. Which was to say, he was probably right; but Thomas would be loathe to admit it.

Thomas swallowed hard, nodded, realized with begrudging gratitude that his breathing was approaching normalcy again. Bates returned the nod and left the room, thoughtfully closing the door behind him, allowing Thomas a moment to himself. 

The panic had subsided, Thomas noticed with relief. But the sorrow had set in. He realized—reluctantly, angrily, tragically—that Bates was telling the truth. Richard was good and kind and reasonable; it seemed likely that he would have forgiven Thomas for his past misgivings. Even for his cowardice. 

Unfortunately, in a phone call made less than twenty four hours ago, he had ruined any chance at that forgiveness.

Thomas felt life more of an observer than a participant in the days that followed, carrying out the same arbitrary duties at the same times without any investment. He recalled the pride he’d felt once he had finally become the butler; the sense of achievement, of having successfully climbed the ranks. He’d finally gotten his life in order, or so it had seemed at the time—now, he couldn’t recall what all the fuss had been about. After all, what was the point of climbing the ranks if he was going to be alone at the top?

The fact was that Richard was perfect. What’s more, Richard was perfect for him. They seemed to fit together so well—something that Thomas had never felt with anyone else. And despite that perfection, his inclination for self-sabotage had taken over, and he’d ruined it when it had barely had a chance to begin.

The monotony was interrupted by Miss Baxter, who had apparently grown tired of watching Thomas deliver the same dreary performance day after day. She pulled him aside after the servants’ dinner one evening, that all-too-familiar look of concern in her eyes.

Thomas was too numb to be bothered by it.

“I won’t force you,” she said, “but are you sure it wouldn’t help to talk to someone about it?”

“About what, Miss Baxter?” Thomas asked, hollow.

She only looked at him, relentlessly compassionate.

Finally, he sighed, relaxed his shoulders, let his face crumple and his brow crease with all the hurt he was holding in. If anyone was going to see the evidence of his anguish, it might as well have been her.

So he conceded. Looking at their feet, he asked, “Can you meet me in my office, after they go up?”

She smiled, nodded, and took her leave. 

Within Thomas were two internal dialogues, at war with each other. One insisted, day after day, that he was worth no one’s time, fated to be forever villainous. This one dominated the conversation, and this one he paid attention to. The other, however—infinitely quieter—reminded him that a few years ago, he wouldn’t have shown an ounce of vulnerability to Baxter, much less invited her to listen as he divulged his woes. Reminded him that in that way, he had indisputably changed. Reminded him that this was proof that he was capable of change.

Learning to accept that, listening to that voice—that was going to be the hardest thing. Second only, perhaps, to losing Richard.

Baxter met him late that night, as promised, and listened dutifully from the chair opposite his desk as he regaled her with the brief but beautiful history of his and Richard’s relationship.

She—outwardly, at least—offered nothing but empathy, even as he recounted how rashly he had ended things. If only he could have had the compassion for himself that Baxter had for him. 

“I don’t even know why I did it, really,” he said, for the third or fourth time. “It was perfect. Don’t know why I couldn’t just leave it be—I love the man, for Christ’s sake.”

Baxter raised her eyebrows, a smirk creeping onto her face. Thomas hadn’t even realized that the words were coming out of his mouth before it was too late. He wasn’t concerned with censoring himself—Baxter had heard far too much to turn away from the mere mention of his loving another man. And of course, it was true. But he’d never said it aloud. He’d never gotten the chance to say it to Richard—to say it back to Richard. 

His eyes grew watery, his mouth fell into a sad smile. Part of him wished he could go back to that numb feeling, wondered if feeling nothing would be easier than feeling this.

Baxter laid a hand on the desk, which Thomas studied for a moment, before taking it. They sat there for a bit, hands joined, silence punctuated only by Thomas’ quiet sniffling. Finally, Baxter spoke. 

“I think you do know why you did it.”

Thomas only looked at her, searching for an answer in her expression. Nothing.

She elaborated, “You said you didn’t know—why you made the phone call? But I think you do. I think it’s the same reason why for years I could barely look at you without you plotting my demise.” Thomas outwardly cringed at the memories, but Baxter was smiling. Warm.

“You’ve made mistakes,” she continued. “I know you’re well aware that I have, too. So I understand, Thomas, how it feels to believe you don’t deserve anything good. To feel you don’t deserve happiness.”

As was her fashion, she never said more than was necessary; just let the words hover between them. Thomas stared distantly over Baxter’s shoulder, confronted with the realization that she was entirely, exactly right. As soon as she named the affliction, it became clear that Thomas was suffering from a chronic case. Years of self-sabotage, years of pushing people away, culminating in him giving up the one person he cared about most—all explained so concisely. 

Despite trying to change his relationship to the world around him, inside he remained utterly unconvinced of his worth; certain that, as he was a bad person, he would only ever be subject to bad circumstances. Intent on pushing away any opportunity for happiness, forcing himself deeper into the role of victim than the world already had. He had sealed his own fate: he predicted that nothing positive would enter his life, and then ensured that it never did.

Thomas wasn’t sure how much time had elapsed between when Baxter last spoke and the moment he returned to the room, suddenly aware of his shaky breaths breaking through the silence. Grateful for the time that Baxter had allowed him to ruminate and find his way back.

He laughed—it was somewhat self-deprecating, but part of him was genuinely happy to put words to the phenomenon that had plagued him for as long as he could remember. Laughter sounded much too eerie in that quiet room, though; it didn’t help Baxter’s already-present worry. Thomas attempted to put her at ease.

“Why is it that you’re the keeper of such profound wisdom, Miss Baxter?” He asked. She offered a little giggle, as he muttered, “Always know what’s going on inside my head…”

“You think me much wiser than I really am,” she answered, always humble. “I just recognize so much of myself in you.”

He smiled at her, warmly—a relatively new practice. She returned the favor. 

“Well,” he said with a sigh, “I am grateful for the language to describe my symptoms. I only wish I’d had the diagnosis before I went and fucked everything up.”

Baxter did an admirable job of hiding her wince; she knew that his cursing was intended to bring levity, even if it sounded harsh. She squeezed Thomas’ hand. 

“Don’t give up quite yet,” she pleaded.

Thomas scoffed—he’d already made a mess of things. There was nothing left to give up on.

“I mean it,” she persisted. “Sometimes there are opportunities, second chances. Next time you’re offered one, just… try not to refuse it.”

He wondered again, privately this time, where Baxter had learned to give advice so poignant, so maternal. Someday he’d make a point to tell her how proud he was of the little girl he’d grown up with; to tell her what a wonderful woman she had become.

Not tonight, though. He’d given her far too much access to the machinations of his mind for one evening, thank you very much. 

Soon after their conversation, Baxter went upstairs, followed shortly by Thomas. That was the first night in a long while that he didn’t go to bed feeling empty; too hollow to feel the sorrow he’d buried. That night, he wasn’t happy—hardly even optimistic, but he was grounded. That anguish was coming to the surface, and it hurt like anything; but there was something productive about the act of feeling it. A catharsis. A reminder that he could feel. 

Thomas resolved that night to accept the next opportunity presented to him, to force himself to let something good into his life no matter how much his mind protested. 

Lucky for him, the opportunity was about to be just within reach.

***

If Thomas hadn’t been entirely too surprised to think at all, he’d have had half a mind to be offended. Not shocked—he’d known that he wasn’t the family’s favorite, and Carson had left big shoes to fill—but offended. When Grantham delivered the news, however, all he said was, “I see, milord.”

His Lordship was, of course, as congenial as possible. In fact, Thomas believed some of what he said; for all their faults, the family had always been kind to him. He trusted Grantham when he insisted that he wanted Thomas to be in an environment more suited to his needs.

He gathered his wits enough to suggest that he take a trip to interview before anything was decided, citing some nonsense about formality and tradition. If Grantham had any inclination that the young, queer butler had no real regard for tradition, he didn’t let on; he simply agreed and suggested that Thomas make travel plans for the coming week-end. And with that, he was dismissed.

Thomas drifted back downstairs in a daze, head bursting with plans and imagined conversations. In his distraction, he nearly ran into Miss Baxter on the stairwell. 

“Thom—Mr. Barrow? Is everything alright?”

He looked at her, slack-jawed, before explaining the conversation he’d just come from. It took her a moment to connect the dots—then Baxter’s face lit up.

“But that means—“

“Yes,” Thomas interjected. “A second chance.”

Baxter grabbed his hand, gave it a squeeze, then proceeded up the stairs, a newfound spring in her step. Thomas finished his journey in the opposite direction, carrying out his duties for the rest of the night in a haze. A blissful, terrified haze.

He spent that night planning for his interview, yes; but devoted much more time to planning what he’d say to Richard. In a few short days, he’d have the chance to turn things around.

For, in a stroke of good fortune, the London estate of Lady Rosamund Painswick just so happened to be looking for a new butler.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much for reading! as always, some notes:
> 
> 1\. she’s so late this time around, and for this i am sorry. i decided to update weekly before i went back to school and lost 110% of my free time. going to try to do every other monday from here on, but please forgive me if i’m a day or two behind!
> 
> 2\. we’ll have definitely one more chapter, maybe an epilogue, and that’s it!
> 
> 3\. if it feels like bates came out of nowhere, that’s because he did. after my last chapter i got interested in the thomas/bates dynamic... i don’t think i did it justice here, but it’s been on my mind!
> 
> 4\. your comments are feeding my soul & i cannot thank you enough for them. the folks on tumblr saying kind things are feeding! my soul! and i cannot thank y’all enough. <3
> 
> 5\. as per usual, all the chapter 1 notes apply.
> 
> see you in 2 mondays (hopefully)!!

**Author's Note:**

> notes:
> 
> 1\. i did my best to keep this period/location appropriate, but i am living in the 21st century US, so please forgive my anachronisms/dialect slip-ups!
> 
> 2\. since there’s minimal canon content, i’m conscious that i’m drawing a lot from fanon—at no point was/is it my intention to steal anyone’s work/ideas, however, so please let me know if you feel i’ve done so!
> 
> 3\. didn’t feel the need for any warnings beyond the ones you see, but please let me know if you’d like me to tag for anything else. 
> 
> 4\. i would love to update this regularly but can make no guarantees! i foresee 4, maybe 5 chapters? but i’ll have to see where it takes me.
> 
> 5\. titles are (& will likely continue to be) from “as i lay me down” by sophie b. hawkins.
> 
> 6\. i’m on tumblr as molesly if you wanna say hi!
> 
> thanks so much for reading!


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